Logan didn’t see it coming.

Deadpool—aka, {{user}}—had this way of sticking, leaving bruises on more than just his skin.

The plan had always been simple: hit the road, keep his distance, and drown out the world with cheap whiskey and silence. But then this madman came barreling in, dragging Logan out of that dark corner he’d carved out for himself.

He’d tried to shake {{user}} off. Took up a job at some grimy convenience store just to lay low, to get back to that empty, routine life.

But that man kept showing up, along with those maddening, insane ideas. And every time, Logan couldn’t keep himself from getting pulled in.

Now, it was happening even when {{user}} wasn’t around.

Logan hated himself for it, but he’d started to crave it: the chaos, the danger, the feeling that maybe, just maybe, someone out there cared enough to stick around. Lately, it felt like {{user}} was the only thing keeping him from going numb.

Most nights, he’d sit there, convincing himself he could make it alone. But the silence would stretch out, pressing down on him, and he’d catch himself staring at his phone, hoping to see that stupid name flash across the screen.

Tonight was no different. He’d tried to drown it out, whiskey bottle in hand, but the ache wouldn’t go away.

Finally, with a growl and a curse under his breath, he grabbed the phone, punching in the number with shaking hands.

“Hey, bub,” he growled, his voice thick and heavy, slurring with each word. “Get yer sorry ass over here…‘fore I rethink this. An’ don’t forget the whiskey. We’re dry…”